


The Perfect Chance

by WinterAssassin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwalin may be drunk, It's a celebration, M/M, and angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22477696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterAssassin/pseuds/WinterAssassin
Summary: Dwalin has half a mind to flay the elven prince when the perfect chance suddenly presents itself. After all, he had to repay the elf for using his head as a stepping stone while they were escaping down the river. While others may have forgotten the whole ordeal, Dwalin was still rightfully pissed.However, Dwalin loses his moment and his cool when things take a sudden turn he did not expect.Or - the Dwalin/Legolas story you never knew you needed. ♥
Relationships: Dwalin/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	The Perfect Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, everyone survived the Battle and Thranduil did not mention Aragorn to Legolas since he is pretty much a 10 year old during all this.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy!

The cheers and shouts of jubilation filled the dining halls, reminding everyone of their hard won battle that took place exactly a year ago. The Battle for the Lonely Mountain claimed many lives but in the end, the side of Dwarves, Elves, and Men won. With the help of a Hobbit, a Wizard, a Skin-changer, and some eagles, of course.

The Lonely Mountain was slowly but surely being restored to its former glory. As was the City of Dale, under rule of Bard the Dragon-Slayer. Many previous inhabitants of Erebor began to return once news of the battle had reached the Blue Mountains and surrounding areas. Just last month, the King under the Mountain was reunited with his sister, Dís. It was a beautiful moment though very short-lived when she punched Thorin, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Needless to say, the King of Erebor got an earful from his sister for putting her two son’s through so much. Although Fíli and Kíli survived, they were still badly injured and had spent months recuperating and healing. But, they were young and stubborn.

It was something many of the older dwarves were jealous of since it took them longer to heal. At least they were no less stubborn; they were dwarves, for Durin’s sake! Dwalin was just grateful that everyone in the Company managed to survive the Battle. Balin often joked on how it took years off his life but he was glad they were all okay in the end of it all.

They were having their first celebration after an entire year because this day was going to be known as the day they reclaimed their homeland. A special day they will continue to celebrate in the following years to come. Thorin invited everyone. Their kin from the Ironhill’s, the Men of Dale, Bilbo and Gandalf, and even Thranduil got an invite.

Everyone sent word back that they would be coming for the celebration’s that would surely go on through the night and a month later, here they were. Dwarves, Men, Elves, a Hobbit and a Wizard all stuffed into the Halls of Erebor.

Dwalin was proud to stand by Thorin’s side as their King gave a speech. He thanked everyone for their help in the Battle and their help in restoring their home. They all had a moment of silence for the lives that were lost but when that ended, Thorin held his mug of ale up in a salute. Soon everyone was chattering and talking amongst themselves, being boisterous and enjoying life, food and ale. Dwalin was sure he heard Balin mumble something about being proud of Thorin’s speech, as their King has come a long way from his old stubborn and pig-headed ways. Dwalin smirked to himself.

After a while of merry-making, Dwalin leaned to his side and told his brother that he needed to get some air. Balin nodded and returned to his conversation with King Bard and the current restoration of Dale. Thranduil appeared to be paying some attention to their conversation but he would turn to glare at Thorin whenever the King under the Mountain laughed too loudly at something someone said.

Dwalin walked down a corridor and away from the great Dining Hall. The scents of food, ale, and sweat was beginning to die down and he took a deep breath of fresh air. That did not seem to help at all and Dwalin briefly wondered if he felt this way because of all the ale he drank. The warrior shrugged and continued down his path. He found his way to the balcony above the huge stone doors to Erebor and inhaled deeply, hoping that the real fresh air outside the mountain would help clear his head.

It seemed to help a bit but then Dwalin caught a different scent. He furrowed his brow and turned to see a figure at the end of the balcony, hidden by the shadows cast by the stone statues. Immediately, Dwalin turned to face the stranger, his fingers curling into fists. “Who goes there?” He demanded with narrowed eyes.

The person emerged out of the shadows and Dwalin was surprised to see Thranduil’s son, the Prince of the Woodland Realm. At present, Dwalin could not remember his name and only his title. He was also confused since he thought the elfling would have been with his father, back in the Dining Hall. The warrior dropped his guard as the elf was one of Thorin’s invited guests and he settled for folding his arms over his chest, raising his nose to the elf. Just because Thorin begrudgingly became allies with Mirkwood did not mean that Dwalin had to like them.

Besides, seeing the Prince just made his anger flare. It made him remember the many days they spent locked in Mirkwood’s prison. He remembered all the times the Prince would walk by his cell and make some off-handed comment just to piss him off and send him into another fury of trying to bust out, only ending up with him bruised from his efforts. He remembered when they finally escaped and the blond haired elfling used his head like a stepping stone. His rage darkened, but he held his cool.

“Well, well, well...” Dwalin finally spoke, trying to mask his anger with nonchalance.

The elf Prince bowed his head in greeting. “I did not mean to startle you, master dwarf.” He apologized, his soft blue eyes leaving Dwalin and focusing on the moon that shined high above them. Legolas continued, “I was just getting some air.”

Dwalin snorted when the lad referred to him as ‘master dwarf’. He eyed the elf suspiciously for a moment longer but eventually turned his eyes to the sky, as well. Dwalin glanced back at the elf, his anger still bubbling under his skin. Maybe it was the ale that kept festering his anger or perhaps it was the pale-skinned, blue eyed, blond-silvery haired elfling that was standing in front of him – looking undeniably stunning underneath the light of the moon. Dwalin huffed.

‘ _I am no Kíli,_ ’ The warrior told himself. He was not infatuated with an Elf. He was angry (and possibly a little drunk), and he wanted to do something about his anger. What though, he had no idea. Dwalin cleared his throat, “So, lad, what’s your name?”

Legolas turned to him, his eyebrow arched. “Legolas Greenleaf,” The archer stated, eyeing Dwalin. “You are Dwalin, right? I remember the older one scolding you like a child for hurting yourself trying to break loose.” The fair-haired elf smirked at his words while Dwalin’s anger intensified.

“That’s all thanks to you, now ain’t it?!” Dwalin scowled at the elf who looked all too pleased at his out burst. It only fueled his rage. “You were the one prancing by my cell every chance you got! Saying things you knew would infuriate me!” The dwarf accused, jabbing a finger at Legolas.

The Prince did not seem phased by his rude actions. In fact, he looked amused as he retorted, “It is hardly my fault since you make it so easy yourself. Also, I do not prance.” Legolas muttered the last part.

“Aye, _sure_ it is.” Dwalin scoffed when the elf tried to blame it on him. He shook his head and paced around, trying to reel in his anger. He did not want an incident to happen and ruin Thorin’s attempts at peace between the two races. The warrior stopped when he saw the elf move in his peripheral. He tensed.

Legolas noticed him tense and held up his hands defensively. “Worry not, dwarf. I was about to take my leave.” The elf said coolly, turning away from Dwalin.

Dwalin seethed. “So that’s it, then?” He fumed.

Legolas stopped and turned to him, silent.

Dwalin growled, “You always do that! You say something _infuriating_ and you leave!” The dwarf went back to quickly walking back and forth. He knew if he did not get a hold of his emotions, it would spiral out of control and something bad would happen. Yet, he could not help himself. It must definitely be the ale.

“You say something to provoke me and leave me to make a fool of myself and you used _my head_ as a stepping stone! You are one annoying elfling, lad!” Dwalin spat. Although it felt like some weight was lifted off his shoulders for yelling at the Prince, he was still angry. He was fuming but when he heard Legolas laugh, Dwalin faltered. His mind stopped running and suddenly he was doubting everything he said in his defense. Once again he was left feeling foolish – but at least Balin was no where in sight to scold him like a child.

“It was for a strategic advantage,” Legolas explained, although it all sounded like bullshit to Dwalin. The elf stepped closer to the dwarf, staring down at him. “You cannot tell me you have harbored anger about that for so long?” The amusement hidden in his voice and the slight smirk on his face only made Dwalin all the more angry.

“ _So what?!_ We dwarves are stubborn, you know! The others may have forgiven or forgotten, but not me!” Dwalin complained bitterly as he turned his heated gaze from the elf to the ground. Busy thinking of other things to accuse the Prince of, Dwalin failed to notice Legolas step closer to him. His burning glare at his feet stopped when he saw pale, nimble fingers come into his view.

Legolas hooked his index and middle finger in the strap of Dwalin’s suspenders, giving it a little tug to make the tattooed dwarf lean closer to him and whispered, “Are you so stubborn and angry from old age? Or perhaps you are so bothered and angry at me because you realize that you actually _do_ enjoy being teased, hm?”

The elf’s words made his face burn and his head feel light. “I do _not_ enjoy being teased, ‘specially by the likes of you!” Dwalin retorted. Legolas wrapped his fingers securely around the strap but Dwalin made no move to dislodge the elf’s hand. The dwarf continued, “I am impervious to your charm, elf.” He insisted under his breath, his dark eyes locking with Legolas’ crystal blue eyes which seemed to gleam under the moonlight.

Dwalin could see a faint twitch of the elf’s lip, as if he were resisting a smirk or a smile. It made Dwalin remember his festering anger. Finally, Legolas spoke, “Maybe you are not mad over the fact that I stepped on your head but simply because as a warrior, you respect my talent for slaying orcs and resent that because I am an elf.”

His words echoed in Dwalin’s mind. The tattooed dwarf narrowed his eyes but found that he could not deny those words. For in truth, the elfling was a great fighter. He did save their King a number of times during their escape from Mirkwood to the Battle for Erebor. As much as he was loathe to admit it.

Legolas leaned back, his fingers falling from their hold on his suspenders. “I did not know you thought of me as charming...” The Prince added in a near-whisper. It made Dwalin flush hotly once more and he inwardly berated himself for saying such things a minute ago. He suddenly wished Balin was here to reel him in seeing as the ale was doing nothing but digging a deeper hole for him. His mind raced for something to say. Something other than making comments on the elf’s charm, his blue eyes which sparkled under moonlight, his lithe and light frame which somehow managed to battle foes twice his size or weight...

Dwalin swore under his breath.

The elf raised a brow. Dwalin cleared his throat and looked away, finding it hard to stare at the elf any longer. His stomach twisted as his heart beat unusually quick. Finally, he found something to say. “You still have my weapons, you know.” Dwalin declared.

Legolas stared at him briefly before turning his gaze away. “I suppose we do.” He smiled, finding it somewhat amusing. “When my father and I return, I shall send your Company’s things back.” Legolas claimed, eyeing the dwarf. The elf was curious, “What weapons belong to you?”

Dwalin puffed out his chest. “Grasper and Keeper, my twin axes.” He stated. “Also, I want my damn knuckle dusters back.” Honestly, he missed those things.

Legolas stared down at him, slightly confused. “Knuckle dusters?” He repeated uncertainly.

“Aye!” Dwalin grumbled. He grabbed the elf’s hand, ignoring the tingling in his fingers as he did so. He touched the soft, pale skin on his hand and gently traced his knuckles. “They slide onto your hands and they are quite good for punching people in the face.” Dwalin had a wolfish grin on his face, his eyes gleaming at the memories of damage they could do to someone.

Legolas appeared interested at the prospect but his blue orbs darted to where his hand was being held captive by the tattooed dwarf. Dwalin seemed to forget he was holding an elf’s hand or maybe he knew and was just so absorbed in the smoothness of his skin. It amused Legolas, though he did not say anything.

A faint cough pulled both their attention to another dwarf who was standing by the staircase which lead up to the balcony. He stared at Dwalin, then at Legolas, then at Dwalin who was holding onto the elf’s hand. A smile crept onto his face and something twinkled in his eyes. “Bofur,” Dwalin warned, his eyes narrowed.

Bofur raised his hands, “I wasn’t gonna say anything, Dwalin.” The brownish-green eyed dwarf hesitated and could not help the laugh that spilled from his lips.

If Dwalin was still angry, his anger would be directed to Bofur instead of Legolas. “ _Bofur_ ,” Dwalin stressed his name, giving the always optimistic dwarf a final warning. He dropped Legolas’ hand and faced the hat-wearing dwarf.

Bofur pressed his lips together at the look Dwalin gave him. It lasted for a few moments before he sputtered out, “You were holding hands wit’ an elf!” Bofur wheezed, doubling over as he laughed even louder than before.

Dwalin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shut up,” He snapped. “Why don’t you go back to the party and get even more drunk and forget this ever happened!” The tattooed dwarf pointed in the direction of the Dining Hall. Bofur sniggered as he turned away from the two. Dwalin glared, “Get!”

“Aye, aye,” Bofur giggled out. He descended the stairs, nearly tripping in his drunken state. “Just wait til’ I tell the lads!” The dark haired dwarf rasped as he disappeared from their sight.

Dwalin fumed.

Legolas was still amused. He did not care if word got around that a dwarf held his hand, in fact, if his father heard about it, Legolas would be glad over the distress it would cause his father. He glanced at Dwalin who was still fuming from Bofur’s words. He lightly touched Dwalin’s shoulder as not to startle him. “I am going to retire to my room soon but I just wanted you to know I enjoyed our... talk.”

“It was more of you teasing me more than anything, though...” Dwalin muttered, his attention back on Legolas. While he did not appreciate being called out, Dwalin supposed that since they were now allies, he could admit the elf was a good fighter. Hell if he ever said it to the blue-eyed elf’s face, though.

Still, Legolas smirked. “You should return to your celebrations.” The elf paused, tilting his head. “Unless you wish to escort me back to my accommodations.” The Prince had a sly smile on his face.

Dwalin stared. He glanced in the direction Bofur disappeared in and figured that he could wring his neck later. The tattooed dwarf looked back to Legolas and responded coolly, “Aye. I can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> I'll leave your imagination to decide the rest.
> 
> Thanks for reading! ♥


End file.
